Long Wanderlust Poems
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Breathe free breathe out exhale my soul
Unchained from ill gotten sins empty not whole
Lovers at night friends by day
Fewer words spoken safer that way
Tasteless wanderlust meandering lost
Salty tears shed no matter the cost
Black heart blue eyes temple of God
I melt when your in me a pile of mud
Breathe free breathe out exhale my soul
Unchained from ill gotten sins empty not whole
Passion and lust and pain are our glue
Vines from the forest entwine me and you
Lovers at night friends by day
Fewer words spoken safer that way
Entranced by your soul and barred by your heart
I am your keeper we can’t be apart
Black heart blue eyes temple of God
I melt when your in me a pile of mud
Breathe free breathe out exhale my soul
Unchained from ill gotten sins empty not whole
Snow Globe Memories – Mystic
As my wrinkled old hands grasp the glass ball,
I watch as the glistening snowflakes begin to fall.
I gaze into it and give it one last shake.
There’ll be no room for all I was hoping to take.
My heart strokes the strings of memories, sublime.
This little snow globe has stood the test of time.
I watch the soft flakes settle on an old oak tree.
Alpine trees echo enticing chants, beckoning me.
I was bound for paradise, such a splendid upward climb.
The alps bringing peace, when church bells chime.
My wanderlust cured, no more would I roam.
Such amazing years I have spent in my mountain home.
Lost in the vision of my little snow globe here today.
As the last of the snow has settled, I really want to stay.
Along with some other treasures, I pack it in my port.
My love of this home just couldn’t be bought.
I wonder if there’s a snow globe that depicts where I am going.
I’ll miss my lovely chalet especially when it’s snowing.
I’ll keep my wee globe with its snow falling under the dome,
and I’ll take the snow in my glass ball to the old age home.
Cruising along horizons unseen
Where scent of greenery lingers,
The plaza curves in a labyrinth
Of footprints memorizing vignettes
Past old churches and warm townsfolk;
And I stop, amazed. My spirit
Inhabits another culture,
Different in its quaint artwork
That a soul tastes the delicacy
On to paths where new souvenirs
Await. Somehow, these wanderings
Free the senses to open life’s doors,
Engulfed by fired, thrilled abandon.
Once more, the roads of adventure
Meander through discoveries,
Searching for memories to keep.
Wanderlust Contest for nette onclaud
From Gabby Sabre Aug 11, 2014
16 Lines
An Arctic fox casts a shadowed glance
Sideways on the frozen glassy lake, slipping
Pigeon like, gingerly, through fractured light
Images of a swollen moon swallows up the night
Wanderlust for blood will keep him tracking
Hunger pain is cryptic in the savage beast
Frigid ice that slices through the birthright
Wild storms bring shivering numbing cold
Pain is cryptic as a scrimshaw man in ivory
Carving out a living after the sea gives up its own
Whale remains become an etching post for patterns
Frost bit hands work the blade inside the bone
Cracked open long and wide like a spine or smile
Under the treeless forest of stretching flat lands white
Screaming winds will stop at nothing to fill in zeros frozen
A wolf howls but thunder is louder under the pillowed clouds
Muffled hollow, drowned in the secrets found
Whispered outside where survival holds wolf to his fur
Somehow tempest gales grow angrier in the fractured arctic
Unpleasant voices are never heard again in winter sounds
About the hour of midnight around the ice house
Carved out of snow, rounded all about
A humble mother with child hide inside the dome
Covered in leather, camouflaged in white
Eskimos stay safe and warm away from trouble
Bitter cold never grows old on glaciers
Fear not the tumbleweed or desert fire
Tropical seas are only a dream of better weather
Here on the badlands life is measured in ice
Not in pounds of gold or silver snow fox
A sliver of light from a lost sun is peeking
Nights last forever under moon’s tutelage
Under the working blade confused by day
Cutting away summer from winter is a man
Carving out an igloo or whale bone tooth
Etching a future where fingers go numb
Light becomes a figment of the imagination
As a diminishing sun, a distant star fades away
Mother prepares Eskimo blubber pie for supper
I wonder if some part of me was running,
while I gathered up my thrills in wanderlust;
scattering them like dust to the fire, that feeds a lazy afterglow.
The Adventure of Wonder. The one I embellish just a little,
because that time away is my big trophy
full of glitter. I can't hardly reach in without distortion.
My portion of that place was different than I expected-
a beauty exceeding the dreams
I'd constructed from photographs, but it was tamed and balanced-out.
Tugged under gray skies like a great god asleep in some hidden cave
beneath a thriving city.
And I made to-do lists daily, as I'd done in college to ease the pressure
(with specially constructed spots for sightseeing)
And some days when I wandered off to little Irish villages,
I looked for better places to stuff the notes
of future plans. (I found them everywhere)
I found them even in the glare of the rocky cliffs that stood naked
to Atlantic winds. And I shoved them in and went off
and saved them inside my tiny travel-friendly lap-top, which I took
even on days that I felt like a god,
because no one I knew would ever walk the same places
I had. I grew up and I grew proud
and then lost it again, when plans
collided with the world that was. And the cycle repeated;
It still does.
And when the day finally came that I descended
hazy-eyed from the journey of dreams, I felt the same
as the day I left. That familiar blend of joy and thrill
and anxiousness, that leaves my chest tight for days.
Weeks passed before I grieved.
A dancer in Leeds once told me:
sometimes all you need is a new pair of eyes
not a destination. I believed her,
and I still do.
And I'm happier too, when I see the faces
of the ones I'd missed; the memory of something lost still fresh.
But then there's that other feeling,
the one I let take me across the Atlantic
like a stranger with welcoming eyes (that somehow seem familiar)
that has me writing everything down, arming against disaster.
Only now the notes die faster.
I wave them off hoping in the future (when that twenty-something year-old
sense of urgency dies, or transcends into realities of peacefull coping)
I can use them as a witness to myself, and they'll tell me nothing's lost
in the breakdown. Everything just comes and goes.
And whether we've never had it, or we have it all,
I think I'll never know. There are those things
we must learn to let go.
My mother tells me
the ways the world used to be.
She says—
it used to snow on Christmas Day
the trees would turn red and orange
and yellow in the autumn months.
She tells me of a great reef in the ocean
dressed and dazzling in more colors than a child could dare
to dream
My mother tells me
of something she calls “bitter”
that it chilled the bone
and left frost on the morning grass in place of dew
My mother tells me
of bird sounds in the morning
the screech of owls and twitters of robins and blue jays
greeting the rising sun,
carried by breezes
My mother tells me
of bees in spring
and dandelion-green-and-yellow knees in summer
And sometimes, in the early morning light,
I can almost recall
a wanderlust from a home I’ve never known
Memories that fade and fall like snowflakes and the ice at
the edge of the world
And I—
I cannot help
but to cradle them in my warm, warm hands,
melting them,
picturing how the world must’ve looked.
My heart strokes the strings of memories, utterly sublime.
Alpine trees echo enticing chants to welcome me there.
Whirling in spirited hurry, now free from all worry.
Anticipation is engrossing my mind, before time.
There is magnetism in the alp's compassionate embrace.
I am bound for paradise, such a splendid upward climb.
Wanderlust cured, no more will I roam from my mountain home.
The alps bringing peace and security, as church bells chime.
Exiled no more, I return to breathe each breath of fresh air.
Now free from all worry, whirling in spirited hurry.
Blessed by God, I'm back to my mountain home with snow and rime.*
A Bushel Of Sage, I'm Stardust
Ascending through meditation, Soul Drifting Wanderlust
Seven Doors To Heaven
VICTORIOUS! I Raise the Alchemists Scepter,
Climbing Stairways above the Mists Of Life
Rising Aflame, Blazing Lights like Nazarites
Aura Sheens Of Infinity the Spirit Gleams Forever
Soaring Above Lies & Oppressors,
Ever-Flowing like the Grace of an Epic Zen Master
My Hearts Deep and Rich like Jasper,
Flying Ever-Higher, Ever-Faster
I'm a Full Throttle Cosmo Threshold Smasher,
Sailing Seas Of Eternity, I Drift the Inner Galactics
There, The Promise Lands we Inhabit
Beyond the Chords Of Time, Enshrined, The Elixir Of Life
BEHOLD, The Mystical, BEHOLD, The Divine
I journey, with my pen in hand,
To genuine and unique places…
To the heart of a lily,
The inner side of a turtle’s shell,
Behind the eyes of a gentle hare.
I travel to the forest edge
And out into the pastures
I listen for the rustle of grass
Amid the meadowland’s prairie
I swim the clear streams, splashing…
Beneath the soothing sound
Of water’s rapids falling all around
I write the words of life and love
Penned from the heart of nature’s terrain
About the rain, the sky, the sun…
Anything that touches me with the satin hand of Mother nature.
©2014 by Regina Riddle
Contest: Wanderlust
Date: August 11th, 2014
It happened long years back,
Today, nor yesterday,
When Time perhaps lost way,
It happened long years back.
My youth when wished to roam,
When seasons smiled ahead,
Once when I lost my head
As I took off from home.
Someone when stopping me,
Helpless and pleading me,
Told me: pray do return,
Don’t go my love, pray turn.
Persuaded to me not to go,
Pray see the circumstances,
Lost sense, I scarce could know,
Nor did my lost senses.
I took of from our home,
Wanderlust just to roam,
But then, sick of the place,
City life’s awful pace,
Thought of her far from me,
Who badly needed me,
And one blessed evening,
I said bye to my odd inning.
Seeing the same old street
I felt mighty happy,
Finding back my heartbeat,
My steps in buoy, peppy…
Someone seeing the awkward,
Said: leave an alien home,
Go back to your fond roam,
Too late now, you’d left this poor bird.
Go back to your loneness
That ye chose to embrace,
Leaving me all alone,
Go back to where had gone.
No one, no more stopped me,
No one persuaded me,
None told me to return,
Nor pleading not to go, nor turn.
It happened long, long back,
Today, nor yesterday,
When time perhaps lost way,
For, it happened long back.
______________________________
Reminiscing |05.05.2023|
Poet’s note: Based on an Urdu piece by Ahmed Faraz